Natalia Antonovahttps://nataliaantonova.com
The sky is high. The Czar is far.Tue, 29 Nov 2016 18:48:23 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://secure.gravatar.com/blavatar/6ba5dde2e2322a4857a7fbebebedaeef?s=96&d=https%3A%2F%2Fs2.wp.com%2Fi%2Fbuttonw-com.pngNatalia Antonovahttps://nataliaantonova.com
November, depression, and the illusion of another worldhttps://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/26/november-depression-and-the-illusion-of-another-world/
https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/26/november-depression-and-the-illusion-of-another-world/#commentsSat, 26 Nov 2016 14:44:53 +0000http://nataliaantonova.com/?p=5527Continue reading November, depression, and the illusion of another world→]]>“This is so depressing.”

It’s a common expression. I don’t begrudge it to people and frequently use it myself. I don’t like the self-righteous condemnation some people will heap on you if you use “depressing” or “depression” as throw-away words in casual conversation. If you get horribly offended by that, you may need to get over yourself.

Language evolves constantly, and our language has evolved in such a way that we regularly use “depression” without meaning “serious illness that can really fuck up your shit.” There is nothing wrong with that, and I think it has actually gone a long way toward normalizing the illness and people who suffer from it.

Having said that, depression is still very much a serious illness that can really fuck up your shit.

I am most prone to it in the month of November, and, as I have discovered from living in sunny places like Dubai and Greece, lack of sunlight may not be the main culprit. Maybe it’s due to the tilt of the earth. To the days getting shorter. To red leaves framed by a blue sky. To something.

I would love to write a buddy-cop-like parody novella about November and depression. Here they are, on yet another adventure together, barrelling through the mind, fucking it up like regular buddy cops fuck up city blocks. Here they are, making the lights go out behind the eyes while tossing comic insults at each other.

A lot has been written on the dangers of depression, but there is one particular danger I think is seriously overlooked:

There is this idea that can come up, the idea that if you just get through this, everything will change.

The idea that just up there, around this bend, around this corner, past this desolate intersection, behind this mossy old wall, is another world.

A world where giant shafts of sunlight pierce the clouds, and angels murmur to each other across starlit distances, and you matter to the people who matter to you, and there may not even be any war, or at the very least there are no toothaches and 6 a.m. alarms.

It’s a terrible delusion. Its impact is made that much worse due to the sea-like, receding and advancing nature of the psychological pain itself. It makes you laugh at yourself cruelly. One half of your mind is Carrie, and the other half is every tormentor that Carrie ever had.

I can’t really offer any universally applicable advice on how to deal with the delusion, assuming you have dealt with it and know what I’m talking about.

I can only tell you that what works for me is focusing on the world as it is.

Of course, the hard part is having to first acknowledge that it’s not a particularly great world.

I’m typing this while on an island in the Mediterranean. I know for a fact that mere miles from me, many people have died. Somebody may even be dying as I type this post. Children scream in terror as another refugee boat goes under. I don’t believe for a moment that the sea just swallows these screams, I think they live on. They pierce the world instead of those shafts of light I keep dreaming about when I am able to get some sleep.

Think about what a lot of people’s last moments on earth are like, and then try to not condemn the world. You can’t. It’s impossible.

Now we have governments coming to power that say, those screams and final, gurgling breaths are alright. We have policymakers telling is that they’re music to the eats, in fact, because look – less vermin for the (allegedly) civilized world to deal with! What did people use to do with mice? Drown them in buckets. And this has somehow emerged as a perfectly reasonable solution to an “infestation” of undesirable humans.

Oh man, this world. It must be acknowledged, or how else do you honor its victims? How else do you take the tiny step in the direction of changing it or some part of it?

(Don’t think it can’t be done. The world has changed many times over, as surely as it has stayed the same. The world is a paradox of ancient stardust and dark matter. It’s all things you can think of, and no things you can think of.)

The world is also this: I wake up in the morning and my husband says, “I was watching you sleep. Did you know you pout in your sleep? Your fingers looked very long and thin on the pillow.” Our son is told that if he doesn’t eat his oatmeal, we will tell Siri, and Siri will delete his Angry Birds, because little boys who don’t eat their oatmeal can’t play Angry Birds. The rusty tap in the kitchen has come apart, our water is turned off. I have the excuse not to shower until the repairman saunters up the stairs again. He always treats old things breaking as personal failures of ours. There are songbirds that live in the street, as if they lost their way to the woods, and said “fuck it.” Our son’s eyelashes are so thick that he should be able to flap them and fly. There is a lot of room on my husband’s chest, certainly enough room for my big head and all the early morning dreams still floating about in it.

This is love. In an ordinary corner of the ordinary world, I feel love radiating through everything, through the walls, through the bones of my skull, through sickness, the signal keeps going further and further outward, and nothing can stop it.

And even when you’re gone, the signal continues on, so what I’m saying that maybe it’s important, in spite of all the sadness and horror of the world, to just love. Love when you can. Love what you can. Love often. We are fragile. What else have we but love.

It’s hard to love when I’m depressed, every feeling becomes too large and too painful somehow. So I love in small bites. I don’t try to do it all at once.

I shut out the illusion of the perfect world, where we are all happy and safe, I tell it that it’s very pretty, but that it needs to go for now.

I set small goals, and sometimes I achieve them, and sometimes I don’t.

I keep my eyes on the world as it is is. I won’t get another one in this life.

I try not to fear for myself and my family, I try not to think of the past, or the future, I try to let go of my own painful history. Let go, so I can dance with the now.

I sometimes think of the now as a man smiling at you from across the room at a party, making you look away and blush. It’s OK to look back, to take his hand when he offers it.

The now dances with you, his other hand on the small of your back. The dark is looking into the windows and so are the stars.

This is what I like to think of when I’m sad. This, and so many other things that I am grateful for.

Banner image: Sleeping Woman, Man Ray, 1929.

If you like this blog, or even find it helpful, you can always donate to support it. You don’t have to, but it’s very nice and encouraging when you do ❤

I wanted to point out that the new poetry and essays archive is now available on this site. It doesn’t contain all of my poetry and essays. Just the stuff that I like most.

Yeah, yeah, it’s presumptuous to self-publish poetry. With rare exceptions, it’s presumptuous to force one’s poetry on the world at all.

Of course I also sometimes think that all writing, both good and bad, is presumptuous to an extent. In in the meantime, I keep hearing from you about how much you like the stuff I publish here and have made the archive with that in mind.

By the way, a long time ago, when I was still a high school student, I noticed that the Norton Anthology of Poetry we used in English classes included the work of Bob Dylan. Norton was ahead of its time with this one. His inclusion, which forced me hard to think about the definition of poetry, in a way prepared me for his Nobel Prize (a lot of the writers I know seemed very surprised when he won, which in turn surprised me).

It also made me think about how genre and mediums and methods of delivery overlap in this world that we live in. In that sense, poetry isn’t something that has to be born on the page. Sometimes, in fact, a poem has to travel a certain path in order to be recognized as such. I think that’s curious and wonderful.

The world being what it is right now, curiosity and wonder should be multiplied. I’m trying to do my part, in whatever small, confused, confusing way that is available to me. Good luck with doing yours.

]]>https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/15/new-poetry-and-essays-archive/feed/5bob-dylan-salutes-youNataliaLove thy neighbor: in Trump’s America, some of your neighbors need it more than everhttps://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/13/love-thy-neighbor-in-trumps-america-some-of-your-neighbors-need-it-more-than-ever/
https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/13/love-thy-neighbor-in-trumps-america-some-of-your-neighbors-need-it-more-than-ever/#commentsSun, 13 Nov 2016 14:46:16 +0000http://nataliaantonova.com/?p=5513Continue reading Love thy neighbor: in Trump’s America, some of your neighbors need it more than ever→]]>I’m going to share with you guys two stories sent in to me since the election. Two events that occurred in a country that has elected Donald J. Trump.

The first is from a Nepalese American woman who lives in the Midwest. Let’s call her Kyrah. It’s necessary for her to keep her identity hidden. Her bosses have warned her, alongside all of the employees at her company, that “politically themed posts” on the internet “will not be allowed” following the election. They are ostensibly doing this so that the company “will not attract any negative attention.” I’ll let you be the judge as to whether or not this is responsible policy.

Although she lives in the Midwest, Kyrah grew up on the West Coast. She came to the United States as a child. She describes herself as “not very political.” She did not vote in the 2016 presidential election, having been put off by both of the major party candidates, a decision she now regrets. Here’s why she regrets the decision. I am republishing a portion of her e-mail to me, with permission, and with a couple of edits for clarity:

“A lady who was my neighbor in my hometown for 20 years sent me hate mail after Trump was elected. I am calling it hate mail because I have no other way of describing the message, although it’s hard for me to believe…that somebody could really write this to someone they know…

Here are the exact words. I am not making them up:

‘Your nice job and nice home could have been a real American’s nice job and home. Its [sic] simple math. By coming here, you are taking away from someone who has been here longer and has more of a right.’

She thinks I should leave. This is someone who knows me. She watched me grow up. Now she treats me worse than a stranger, she treats me like the enemy. My husband [and I] are upset and grieving.”

The focus now isn’t just on migrants, on people deemed “foreign.” The focus is on who is and isn’t a “real American.” As you can imagine, this issue is close to my heart. I have also frequently been compared to “real Americans” – and found wanting. The fact that Trump’s wife is an immigrant herself is completely irrelevant to the people who now demand what amounts to a witch hunt against those of us who “aren’t pure enough.”

I also had a conversation with an older friend from North Carolina. This conversation was even more shocking and upsetting.

This friend, let’s call her Betsy, is a middle-aged white woman, and a Bernie Sanders supporter like me. Like me, like millions of us, she still cast her vote for Hillary Clinton, believing her to be a better choice than Trump.

Most of Betsy’s relatives are card-carrying Republicans. Her in-laws, in spite of their love of family values rhetoric, overwhelmingly voted for Trump, a man they see as “having some problems” on account of his “hedonistic lifestyle” (these are their words, as relayed to me by Betsy). They still voted for him, because they are confident that he will a) Change his hedonist ways when he is actually in the White House and b) Work on outlawing abortion.

Betsy told me that she still considers them “fundamentally good people.” But then there is the issue of Betsy’s son-in-law, a man who, she says, “has white supremacist leanings.” Betsy’s daughter and her son-in-law are estranged.

Betsy never made a secret of her political beliefs. For that, she has been taunted and insulted by her son-in-law, the father to her grandchild. Two days after the election, this guy threw a rock through Betsy’s living room window, shattering it.

She heard the noise and opened up her bedroom window. She says her son-in-law was in the front yard, shouting abuse up at her, taunting her, laughing, screaming things like “by the way, you might as well leave the country now, since you voted for that bitch and all.”

By the time she made it downstairs to survey the damage, he was gone. She hesitated on filing a police report (probably not a very smart decision, considering the fact that guys like this tend to escalate, but it’s not up to me to decide).

Why am I telling you these things? To demonize all Trump voters? No. I don’t believe that all of the people who voted for Trump are racist and/or sexist.

But you don’t have to like something in order to enable it. You don’t even have to enable it actively. All you have to do is look away when something awful is going down.

So please don’t look away now. No matter who you voted for.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I don’t believe that President-elect Trump is qualified to lead the most powerful nation in the world. I think he lacks the understanding that actions have consequences. I think he has a narcissistic streak that’s at least partially to blame for his coddling of hate groups and bigots. They act like they love him, so how could he turn that adoring crowd away? He can’t – because it’s all about him, not our society. I have similar fears as far as his foreign policy goes – his approval of dictators and shadowy characters for as long as they’re willing to suck up to him. I would love for him to prove me wrong, but I’m not optimistic. I’m not even pessimistic. I’m just being a realist.

If you want to hate me for these assertions, well, go ahead. It’s never been my business to tell people what they want to hear.

But I do hope that you can still recognize that there are people in this country now who are terrified now. They’re not terrified because a man whose political beliefs are different to theirs just got elected – they’re terrified for their actual safety.

I’m not going to lie, I think the Democratic Party failed us here just as much as the Republican Party did. I think Washington has gotten too complacent, has gone too far up its own ass, frankly, to really hear or understand what’s happening to this country’s electorate.

But I don’t think the solution to that is bigotry, Jesus.

And if you think that firing off hate mail to your immigrant neighbor or triumphantly throwing a rock through someone’s window is somehow going to fix our infrastructure and economy, you’re being an idiot. That temporary rush of power you feel by making someone else feel afraid – it’s not going to positively affect healthcare or student debt or the poverty rate. Don’t kid yourself.

I hope that none of you who are reading this genuinely believe that you can make things right by perpetuating this kind of wrong.

But I also want you to understand that your neighbors may need you now. If you know someone who is scared, do more than shrug and talk about what a pity it is. Ask them how you can help. And if you need help, don’t hesitate to speak up about it.

The other day, a commenter wrote the following under a freaking poetry post of mine:

As much as it saddened and sickened (and entertained) me, it also didn’t leave me surprised. Of course, hate comments are nothing new around here. But I do worry about them growing in scope. I hope I can lean on you guys should that happen. I also sometimes need support.

We’re in for a rough ride, either way. Might as well hang on to one another.

]]>https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/13/love-thy-neighbor-in-trumps-america-some-of-your-neighbors-need-it-more-than-ever/feed/10faded-american-flagNataliascreen-shot-2016-11-11-at-14-53-43Used To Love Himhttps://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/08/used-to-love-him/
https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/08/used-to-love-him/#commentsTue, 08 Nov 2016 10:05:25 +0000http://nataliaantonova.com/?p=4497Continue reading Used To Love Him→]]>Used to love him, had to kill him
Didn’t drive the stake in deep
His pale fist has just cracked the plywood
Help.
The worm wakes in the tinder, taxes are due on Friday
Horses and children need new shoes this season
It’s an inconvenient time for dying
Though what time isn’t.
The priests told me that love is sacrificial
The chemists claim that hardened sugar coats an acid
But what I feel like is the aftermath of sheet glass
Hard to negotiate and thinly scattered.
The king goes to the forest now, the witch unpins her hair
Sharp aftertastes of snow and lilies hang on in the air
The silver backs of fish reflect back omens
Old kitchen grease is fought over by dogs and lovers.
Listen. We all make mistakes
Knots slip apart, the key breaks in the lock
A pretty stranger comes to town, the sword beheads the cairn
The dead go in the wrong way, the ground coughs them up again.
I had to kill him, now I’m walking toward him
The candle in my hand is weeping
The very outline of his shoulders is a poem
And stars and owls peek out from behind it.
His fangs as naked as his feelings
He bows his head and lets himself be petted
This night is far too fine for paying debts and codependence
I say, love me again, and pinch the candle.

I’m worried that this may turn out to be my definitive poem on love and marriage.

As usual, you can reward my efforts here:

P.S. God help us all today.

]]>https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/08/used-to-love-him/feed/3mina-lucy-bram-stokers-draculaNataliaNo guilt-trip, just good timesFrom your humble (and very cold) blog author: news, announcements, CIS-related links, and a request for tipshttps://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/01/from-your-humble-and-very-cold-blog-author-news-announcements-cis-related-links-and-a-request-for-tips/
https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/01/from-your-humble-and-very-cold-blog-author-news-announcements-cis-related-links-and-a-request-for-tips/#commentsTue, 01 Nov 2016 20:58:13 +0000http://nataliaantonova.com/?p=5476Continue reading From your humble (and very cold) blog author: news, announcements, CIS-related links, and a request for tips→]]>Dear friends, subscribers, and people who stop by to yell at me about my unladylike use of curse words,

Hi! Happy 1st of November! Please note, my use of glitter in the above picture is ironic.

November, of course, is not a month for irony. It’s a month for doomed love affairs that need to be conducted in flannel pajama pants, because weather.

Since I currently can’t afford flannel pajama pants (more on that in a minute), I’ve started this month off by reorganizing and updating my story archive. The latest addition to the archive is The Girl Who Went for a Ride, inspired by all of those years I spent working for The Moscow News, which has been obliterated from existence both online and in the print archives, apparently.

(When I started working at TMN in 2010, first as deputy editor, it was an editorially independent newspaper that was also state funded. I guess some people would prefer to pretend it never existed. Or maybe it’s gone due to a stupid bureaucratic error. Maybe those of who worked there in the bitter days between the announcement of our parent news agency’s liquidation and the closure of the paper will never know.)

I am also working on a new archive for my poetry, essays, and some experimental pieces I have in the pipeline. Stay tuned.

A lot of my writer and editor friends have pointed out that publishing poetry and fiction on a personal site is self-marginalizing. They are mostly correct.

I spent the last decade working as a journalist, writing poems and stories spontaneously, not having much energy or time to send them to magazines. In some ways, the blog has been a cop-out. In another way, it made my style evolve in a weird, unfashionable, but personally rewarding way. And it gained me your company in the process.

So I will continue publishing here even as I also work on creative projects elsewhere. I will be excited to share them with you when the time comes.

For those of you who recently tuned in: Since losing my old job in what became known as my Third Consecutive Professional Disaster a year ago, I was forced to reassess my priorities. I had to make more room in my life for things that I loved – whether they be riffs on Yeats or flash fiction about big bugs and rotten teeth. I had no choice.

I hope you will read, enjoy, and donate (or tip, as some of you prefer to call it) when you can. Especially if you enjoyed the latest story. And especially this month. Here is the magic button:

Because, did I say Novembers are for pajamas and love? For me they seem to be more about things going awry/bump in the night, and cold winds biting me in uncomfortable places. Even in Greece, where we’re living a kind of la vie de bohème right now. Don’t get me wrong, Greece is the country for that kind of life, it’s not a sleek sort of place, it has a rugged and ragged heart, people here care for each other in ways I’ve never observed elsewhere, but I do wish we resembled the bohème a little less at the moment.

In this beloved, but unfinished apartment, it is hard to get away from the cold, for example. I’m feeling stalked and hunted by the cold in ways that makes me feel ashamed of all of those times I made fun of “The Day After Tomorrow.” Blankets and shepherd’s tea do a lot, but not enough.

Enjoy. But not so much that you forget to vote. (If you’re American. If you’re of a different nationality, but also dealing with an election now, I’m sorry for not taking it into account. I think I may be forgiven for being U.S.-centric this one time. BECAUSE HOLY COCKSLAPS THINGS ARE CRAZY.)

]]>https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/11/01/from-your-humble-and-very-cold-blog-author-news-announcements-cis-related-links-and-a-request-for-tips/feed/8natalia-antonova-says-hi-and-glitterNatalia*poof* *magic*Come Josephine In my flying... Fuckedy-fuck It's coldThe Girl Who Went For a Ride: a tale of horror (maybe)https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/10/30/the-girl-who-went-for-a-ride-a-tale-of-horror-maybe/
https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/10/30/the-girl-who-went-for-a-ride-a-tale-of-horror-maybe/#commentsSun, 30 Oct 2016 11:54:01 +0000http://nataliaantonova.com/?p=5455Continue reading The Girl Who Went For a Ride: a tale of horror (maybe)→]]>There once lived a girl who knew she was destined for great things, but great things were always taking too long to appear on her horizon. She bided her time with her husband, a street magician, and her best friend, an artist’s mistress. Greatness teased the girl, slyly peeking around the corner up ahead and disappearing again, laughing with other people at parties.

One autumn day, when the skies were clear but the air already smelled like snow, the girl was walking home from her job at a printing house, when a long, black car pulled up next to her in the street. There was a man in the back seat of the car and he rolled his window down. The man’s eyes were shiny and rich and dead, like drops of oil. “I’ve been looking for you,” said the man, and opened the car door, inviting her in. The girl got in, congratulating herself on her bravery as she did so. Greatness required bravery.

The car ride was long. The man did most of the talking. He pointed out various people he saw on the streets, people who couldn’t see him on account of the tinted glass.

“Look at the pregnant chick holding another kid by the arm,” the man would say. “Used to be a good-looking woman, you can just tell. Whoever’s banging her can’t even afford to buy her proper furs. Think she’ll keep her children alive during the coming crisis? I think I know what will happen to them. They’ll be traveling on a snowy road, in some rusty tin on wheels that they call a car, when a drunk driver will force them off the road. They will all die. The littlest child will hang on the longest, and suffer the most, little bubbles of blood forming on her tiny lips as she struggles to breathe. The ambulance won’t come for hours. Hilarious, isn’t it?”

“Look at the old woman drinking a coffee and reading something on her tablet in that cafe window,” the man continued. “She thinks she’s a member of society? She’s nothing. She’s not just past her sell-by date, she’s annoyingly clinging on to life in a world that has no patience for her. Her younger lover will knife her to death and steal her diamonds, which will turn out to be fake. He will return to her apartment, to her body rotting quietly on the floor, because the neighbors are away and haven’t noticed the stench yet, and he will kick the corpse so hard that the mess of wrinkles she calls her face will cave in. That’s what the old bag will get for thinking she’s an actual human being, and not a pile of aged meat.”

“Look at the group of students on a corner,” the man said next. “So free, so full of the strange, erratic energy of youth. Two of them will die of AIDS. The girl with the adorable pigtails will go to jail for resisting a well-connected rapist a little too forcefully.”

“Look at the tired, bloated man selling hotdogs in a kiosk,” the man said. “Did you know that as a child he imagined that he would be a great scientist and inventor?”

“Look at the young woman hurrying home from work in her smart coat and precarious high heels,” the man said. “How happy she looks, in spite of her uncomfortable footwear. She’s up for a promotion, she knows she’s going to get it. But this is her last happy day, I’m afraid. Tomorrow she will find out about the cancer that is eating her. It’s an operable cancer, but the healthcare system will fail her. She will survive, but become permanently disabled, and will take her life around this time next year. Hanging. The neck won’t snap. She’ll piss herself before she goes.”

“Look at that – such a lovely woman washing the windows in an art studio,” the man said. “She’s sleeping with the painter who owns it. She has artistic pretensions herself, but they will all come to naught. She’ll date a succession of men who only care for the wild way she fucks, how great she is at giving head, but she won’t make a name for herself, she will never win a single grant or competition, and her talent will die with her. The casket will be a cheap one.”

The girl recognized her best friend, the artist’s mistress, but said nothing.

“Look at the handsome guy doing card tricks for pay on the corner,” the man said. “How he delights the children. Poor thing, his beloved wife is utterly indifferent to him. All of that hard work, basically being a street clown, and in the cold, no less, and she doesn’t care for him or the hard-earned money he brings in. She knows she deserves something better. It’s causing his heart to go blacker and blacker, day by day. Soon, his heart will rot right through, and he will cry out and die.”

The girl recognized her husband, but again said nothing.

On and on they went, driving, the man talking, the girl listening.

Finally, the man gave up on trying to impress her. “Don’t you want to ask me why I’m telling you these things?” he said.

“Because I’m worthy of knowing them,” said the girl, after a while. “I know who you are,” she told the man. “I know your name. I can even speak it. I can look into your eyes and not go insane from fear.”

“It’s curious to me – your lack of horror and repulsion,” the man told her. “Don’t you want to ask me why I don’t intervene in these sad, doomed little lives I see on the sidewalk? Don’t you want to ask me if anything I told you is even the truth?”

“No,” answered the girl to the first question.

“It’s bitter enough to be the truth,” said the girl to the second question.

“Spoken like a person destined for great things – but untouched by greatness for too long,” said the man. His dead eyes grew even deader. He was a starless void. He was the horizon flatlining at the end of time. She could smell him. He smelled like cologne and good whiskey and old and evil books of magic.

This was her moment, she knew it.

“It has been too long,” she said in what she hoped was not a too-eager manner.

“It may be a while longer,” the man said, opened the car door, and pushed her out onto the cold asphalt. The car sped away. She watched its taillights for a long time, until they disappeared.

The light was failing. The first of the season’s snow began to spiral down. The girl hugged her knees for a while – hugged them as if they were separate from her and in need of comfort. Then she slowly got up and went home.

This blog continues to exist due to your moral support and donations. Please consider donating if you liked this story ❤

]]>https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/10/30/the-girl-who-went-for-a-ride-a-tale-of-horror-maybe/feed/4bosch-the-last-judgment-detailNataliaNo guilt-trip, just good timesWelcome back to hell: AMC’s The Walking Dead returns for a 7th seasonhttps://nataliaantonova.com/2016/10/24/welcome-back-to-hell-amcs-the-walking-dead-returns-for-a-7th-season/
https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/10/24/welcome-back-to-hell-amcs-the-walking-dead-returns-for-a-7th-season/#commentsMon, 24 Oct 2016 13:16:09 +0000http://nataliaantonova.com/?p=5448Continue reading Welcome back to hell: AMC’s The Walking Dead returns for a 7th season→]]>Please don’t read if you’re not caught up with the show and are not interested in seeing spoilers.

Great cinematography. Lovely music. Wonderfully shot action sequences. Amazing, hard-working actors. Fantastic editing. And then there is the writing, of course. Writing so uneven that it causes genuine cognitive dissonance while watching a show that has everything else completely figured out. It’s enough to make your head explode (har har).

I envy Erik Kain, who was able to have a genuine emotional reaction to the first episode of the seventh season of “The Walking Dead.” I was also jolted by it – but it was a feeling reminiscent of how an essentially hollow but cleverly put together horror sequence can still rattle you. TWD is a beloved but polarizing series for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that it teasingly lets you glimpse how great it can be – before repeatedly sinking under the weight of great expectations. Watching it is a bit like watching a beloved basketball team choke under pressure (I’m a Blue Devil, I had vast experience with that during my college years).

I know I said this when season six concluded, but I have to say it again: You can’t populate a show with compelling characters while essentially making them sideshow performers in a drama starring one characters’ leadership/ego. I’m talking about Rick, of course, and it pains me to no end, because Andrew Lincoln is a wonderful actor, and you can tell just how much of his soul he put into both the season six finale and the season seven premiere. It’s a stand-out performance buried under pointless flashbacks and even more pointless, and incredibly ham-fisted, reflections on Whut It Takes To Be A Big, Bad Leader In A Zombie Apocalypse Where The Zombies Aren’t Even The Worst Of It.

I’m over that whole character arc (is it more of character zigzag?), OK? It’s been done to death.

There were several genuinely piercing moments during the season seven premiere, and I do give writers credit for that. I had no doubt that poor Glenn was going to bite it, but I hadn’t expected Abraham to be sacrificed first. Jeffrey Dean Morgan was much better in this episode that he was in the season finale. There was more room for the character to oscillate between sociopathic humor and freakish malevolence.

Unlike many other people, I actually liked the brief moment in which the living and the dead characters were seen enjoying dinner together – life as it should be, not as it turned out, a promise gone forever. Some people thought it was too sentimental, I thought it was bare-boned and emotionally honest. What do we miss most about the dead, after all? The simple moments of warmth and companionship. Shooting the shit over some good food. Watching each other’s children grow up. Stuff like that.

Equally great was the Old Testament-like choice Negan presented Rick with. Chop off your beloved son’s arm, or have him beaten to death and watch as all of your friends get shot. This was a very well-paced, dramatic moment, which also made you feel bad for Carl’s stupid hat (a genius move, when you think about it).

Those moments made the otherwise blah season seven premiere worth watching. I suppose they make the entire show worth watching.

But what I keep going back to is the fact that TWD could be so much better. This season’s premiere demonstrates that all too handily. We didn’t need all of that stupid “fetch me my axe” filler. We didn’t need to sit around twiddling our thumbs, waiting to see who dies – flashes of suspense are great, but when they’re the only thing driving the plot forward, that frankly sucks. Most importantly, The NeverEnding Story (Of Rick’s Ego) is not just a disservice to the other characters, it’s exhausting. It sucks all of the oxygen out of the show.

The focus on Rick is, of course, a focus on the dog-eat-dog world that all of the characters are forced to live in. It is through Rick that we’re meant to understand the brutality of the post-apocalypse. But – and I know I’ve said this before, but it does need to be repeated – the brutality itself is frequently overdone on TWD.

The show is not meant to be an exhaustive take on human nature – it’s horror, it’s going to be pretty one-sided – but a little depth of historic/evolutionary perspective never hurt anyone. Especially if you’ve been doing this for six years already. Come on, guys. Seriously. I love you and all, but come on.

(P.S. Now that Daryl is a hostage, this probably means that the writers have even more room to focus on Rickitus Rex. Please, God, no.)

]]>https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/10/24/welcome-back-to-hell-amcs-the-walking-dead-returns-for-a-7th-season/feed/4the-walking-dead-season-7-glennNataliaUppity lady writer wanted bodily autonomy and respect. What happened next will not surprise you!https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/10/14/uppity-lady-writer-wanted-bodily-autonomy-and-respect-what-happened-next-will-not-surprise-you/
https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/10/14/uppity-lady-writer-wanted-bodily-autonomy-and-respect-what-happened-next-will-not-surprise-you/#commentsFri, 14 Oct 2016 15:25:33 +0000http://nataliaantonova.com/?p=5417Continue reading Uppity lady writer wanted bodily autonomy and respect. What happened next will not surprise you!→]]>Today on Facebook I reposted a powerful essay by my friend Anna Lind-Guzik – the essay deals with sexual harassment and the awful feelings that presidential candidate Donald J. Trump evokes in many of us who know what it’s like to be preyed upon by men. I then posted a picture from a happy day on a nude beach.

The reaction from one of my followers was swift. I am pasting it here in full, without editing a word (for personal and professional reasons, I am omitting this man’s name). I have also written a response, and it is posted below.

Just saw you re-posting a long piece about sexual harasment is bad, and how Donald Trump is a scary man. Then you post a picture of yourself naked on a beach. I thought long and hard about writing a response. Simply put Natalia, I like & respected you for a long time. But when you write “don’t sexually harass me” and pos naked, I have to wonder, just what kind of a double standard you are trying to promote.. ‘Here I am, naked, but don’t grab and harass me’. Because I also follow your (very beautiful) Instagram, I know you also recently posted a picture of yourself with ample cleavage. I like that picture more, the nude beach one is not very flattering though you get bonus point for your nice tummy. I guess the question I have for both pictures is, What is your message? Trying to have it both ways? I like and respect your writing, would it be HARASMENT for me to say that your pictures make me hot and bothered making it difficult to appreciate you? Just thinking out loud and trying to add to the conversation. It seems You want people to vote for Hillary, and you want females to be respected, and then you act like one of those non-credible women that Trump is (I think, baselessly) accused of doing whatever to. It doesn’t make for a very strong message in my opinion. Because of my respect for your dignity I wanted to write this to you in private. But would appreciate your response.

Dear Man on the Internet (I’m leaving your name out of this, mostly out of respect for your family),

I made a rookie mistake. I assumed that my body is my own, and that I can do things that I like with it, and not be punished for it.

Posting about my disdain for harassment AND my love of frolicking on the nude beaches of southern Crete was hypocritical. I want “females to be respected,” after all, but how can I (or any other “female”) demand respect while simultaneously inhabiting a female body and doing what I want with it? These things are mutually exclusive, after all.

You are also absolutely right that it is “baseless” to accuse Donald J. Trump of inappropriate conduct. I mean, what’s the big deal about grabbing someone “by the pussy” and bragging about it? Those women really should have thought about it before leaving the house, pussies in tow.

Coincidentally, Trump’s wife Melania has also posed nude – but that’s OK, because she’s beautiful and, more importantly, married to a rich conman successful businessman. A rigid class hierarchy is an important function of our social order, and if you oppose that, you’re probably a dirty communist.

You’re right to point out that my picture isn’t very flattering. I had this silly idea that I dress/undress for my own benefit, and who cares how someone might rank my body, but let’s face it, your opinion of me is what really matters. Thank you so much for at least awarding me bonus points for my tummy, because I would have thrown myself off of a bridge otherwise (it would’ve been extra bothersome, because I live in Chania right now, and there aren’t any high bridges to save/end your life).

This line: “I like and respect your writing, would it be HARASMENT [sic] for me to say that your pictures make me hot and bothered making it difficult to appreciate you?” is particularly inspirational.

As many of my friends know, I have a bit of a crush on a famous, award-winning male journalist. I finally know how to express my feelings to him.

“Dear X,” I’m going to say. “I like and respect your writing, but you are also too handsome for words, and so I can’t appreciate you. I want to like you for your MIND, but it’s so hard since you’re so hot, you filthy manwhore.”

Haha, just kidding, I would never say that to a man. Everybody knows it’s OK to denigrate women if they’re too good looking, or not good looking enough, or when they’re being uppity and unladylike and wanting to run for president (lol, let’s face it, that stuff is only cute when a five-year-old girl with pigtails says, “Daddy, I want to be president someday!”, not some old harpy, right, fellas?), but you can’t denigrate men like that, that would just be misandry, and misandrists are all lonely women with a lot of cats, and cat food is expensive.

If I were unfeminine and unsophisticated, I would push back, of course. I would say things like, “I lived in the Middle East, where I was always covered up when I went outside, and that did nothing to stop harassment, not to mention the fact that some of the worst instances I faced happened when I was wearing a bulky coat on the streets of a European city, so maybe the harassment issue has nothing to do with clothes/lack of clothes and everything to do with whether or not we think of women as human beings?” or even something like, “Who are you to tell me what to do, you creep?” but then you might not praise my Instagram cleavage again, and I live for backhanded compliments from guys who can’t spell “harassment.”

So thank you. Thank you from the bottom of said Instagram cleavage. This entire election has already been almost too beautiful and inspiring for me personally – and for women in general – but it’s always good to know that things can always get worse more beautiful and more inspiring.

]]>https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/10/14/uppity-lady-writer-wanted-bodily-autonomy-and-respect-what-happened-next-will-not-surprise-you/feed/13fugly-slutNataliaLife advice for when the mind is full of scorpionshttps://nataliaantonova.com/2016/09/29/life-advice-for-when-the-mind-is-full-of-scorpions/
https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/09/29/life-advice-for-when-the-mind-is-full-of-scorpions/#commentsThu, 29 Sep 2016 10:21:48 +0000http://nataliaantonova.com/?p=5402Continue reading Life advice for when the mind is full of scorpions→]]>When life has gotten strange, and it’s more than you can handle, the absolute worst thing you can do to yourself is go, “Well, of course. Of course this would happen. Because this always happens to ME.”

This locks you deeper into the general awfulness. This *cements* the awful. And makes you more likely to subconsciously choose the paths that will lead you to more awful in the future.

What happens is only part of the general plot. The other part is how you react. Such an obvious point, but so easy to miss when you’re under heaps of stress.

Many years ago, I was in a stressful situation. I was worried about events not under my control. I couldn’t sleep. I had also recently read Macbeth, and set about re-reading the play, convinced that the not sleeping thing was not accidental. Macbeth shall sleep no more, etc.

I hadn’t stabbed a sleeping guest to death in cold blood, nor executed a potential political rival’s family and servants, but those were details.

I was overcome with guilt. The overwhelming, existential guilt that hides deep in your chest and radiates outward whenever something happens to implicitly confirm your own fears about yourself. “Of course,” the guilt says.

After two weeks of barely any sleep, I would have climbed walls if I had any strength left. My mom told me to stop fighting the body on this. “If it doesn’t want to sleep, it doesn’t want to sleep – get over it.” She also showed me how muttering the same prayer over and over again, while not nearly as cool and dramatic as “When the hurly burly’s done / When the battle is lost and won,” is more helpful if you don’t want to spend the dark hours thinking.

Once the insomnia was accepted for what it was, it went away. Acceptance left no room for that scattered but persistent feeling of guilt that kept lighting my brain up when it should have been dormant.

This year, finding myself in a similarly stressful situation, I reconnected with Macbeth via Justin Kurzel’s film version. I know enough “Scottish Play”-related stories from fellow theater people, and am aware of the general idea that there has never really been a “a great Macbeth.” There is something about the play that makes it not work properly on the stage. Maybe Shakespeare was too far ahead of his time with this one.

Regardless of all that, Kurzel made a great movie – hard to believe that this is his second one. It should have done better in the awards department (you wonder if that’s the curse again – or whatever).

I love Kurzel’s use of children and family to drive the play’s central points home. Both Kurzel and Michael Fassbender understand the terrible sadness at the heart of the title character, and keep the balance between the sadness and his brutality. The brutality cannot be summed up in words like “savage” or “animalistic” – animals go by instinct. Macbeth, on the other hand, has choices, which makes his fate and the fate of Lady Macbeth much more terrible.

“I am in blood / Stepped in so far”

Marion Cotillard is genius in this film – as breakable as glass, and just as sharp.

I suppose if you’re a snob, you can get angry at Kurzel for the changes he makes, as well as for how he films the action (he doesn’t pay lip service to theater, he doesn’t wish to appear as some genteel version of himself here; he has tools at his disposal to wow you and isn’t afraid to use them), but I think the changes are there to make the film its own thing. He’s having a dialogue with Shakespeare, as opposed to just transcribing him.

I watched and re-watched, and read and re-read, and then – to bed. To bed. I don’t know if I’m handling the new test more gracefully this time around, but at least I’m sleeping so far. I told myself that I wouldn’t get angry at myself if I didn’t sleep. I told insomnia it was OK to show up (where’s the fun in that? Insomnia is asking).

When life has gotten strange, and it’s more than you can handle, remember that it’s not about you. And it is about you. The world doesn’t seek us out for this. The world seeks us out every time. Battles visible and invisible are lost and won equally, and Shakespeare knew that this isn’t a paradox. You can’t rise above any bloody battle without compassion – and you can’t extend compassion to others if you don’t first extend it to yourself.

]]>https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/09/29/life-advice-for-when-the-mind-is-full-of-scorpions/feed/4macbeth-lady-macbeth-fassbender-cotillardNatalia"I am in blood/Stepp'd in so far..."Good question alert: Can you be a “serious writer” while also just being yourself?https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/08/13/good-question-alert-can-you-be-a-serious-writer-while-also-just-being-yourself/
https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/08/13/good-question-alert-can-you-be-a-serious-writer-while-also-just-being-yourself/#commentsSat, 13 Aug 2016 08:04:28 +0000http://nataliaantonova.com/?p=5303Continue reading Good question alert: Can you be a “serious writer” while also just being yourself?→]]>The daughter of a friend is taking a summer journalism course, and one of her assignments was to interview “a journalist with international experience” about their “career choices and future goals.”

One of the questions she just sent me was so excellent that I am reprinting it, alongside my answer, below (with permission):

Q: Your byline has been seen in many internationally significant publications and you regularly comment on current events. Today I read your comments to Yahoo Sports about Russia’s doping scandal. Also today I opened your blog and read a song about “shrieking demon heads” that you wrote. Is there a contradiction between your professional persona and your artist persona? Has it affected your work? What would you say to someone who wanted to follow your example?

A: What a great question. I will be honest, I think I would have had more professional success as a journalist if I played it straight – as in not had a blog that featured songs about demon heads, nor posed for artists in my spare time, nor written plays about sunken ships and haunted bureaucrats, and so on.

My generation grew up on the mantra that you should “be yourself.” This rarely works out well. For a woman it can be especially hard to “be herself” and not experience career setbacks. And forget about being taken seriously if you’re also seen as a kind of “sex object.” Serious journalism, of the kind I’ve always been interested in, is a macho field, and if you don’t play by its rules, people are going to be weirded out by you. And when people can’t put you in a box they’d rather not deal with you at all.

On the other hand, songs about demon heads, poems about sex, and plays with ghosts in them are also part of my professional life. They’re also just an intrinsic part of who I am.

Over a decade ago, I received the shock of a lifetime when my cousin was killed in a car accident. She was a talented pianist and singer and just weeks before she passed away, she and I had an argument about me becoming “who I really am” eventually. I was leading a pretty strait-laced existence at the time and she saw right through it. She told me that I was a “crazy artist type” no matter what I did. I was not prepared to listen. We parted on an awkward note. I never saw her again, unless dreams count.

Her words stayed with me. No matter how much I tried to fight her vision of me, deep down inside, I knew it to be correct. I think I would have escaped a lot of disappointment and drama had I accepted that she was right much sooner.

Any meaningful life choice involves a degree of sacrifice. So you do what you must. And you give thanks for being disliked, because, honestly, most people in the world won’t care enough to dislike you in the first place.

I consider myself a serious writer, a serious journalist (though I barely work as a journalist anymore, tbh), and I think it shows in everything I do, because I try to do it well. I’ve made a lot of sacrifices to be able to do what I love. Were they justified? I don’t know. I probably won’t ever know, since you can’t draw conclusions until your life is done. And who knows what my loved ones will eventually come to say about the choices I’ve made.

So, should you be like me? No. Be like yourself. Be clear-eyed about the consequences of being like yourself. Be clear-eyed about the consequences of not being like yourself. Whatever you do, try to do it well (and I include crap you do to pay the bills in that category too). Don’t let anyone, no matter how well-meaning, decide anything for you – because owning your screw-ups is sometimes even more important than not screwing up in the first place. Let your heart hold fast and good luck.

Q: P.S. Did you come up with phrase “tornado of shrieking demon heads” yourself?

A: Of course not. I got it off of Twitter and annoyingly enough can’t remember whose account that was.

P.S. I owe a word of thanks to WordPress Discover for featuring this post. I’m glad so many of you found it useful. This blog continues to exist due to Discover support, due to your support, due to me very much needing an outlet, and due to the occasional tip, which you can send here, if you wish:

Owing to her young age, the author of the question that prompted this post would like to stay anonymous, but I’ve let her know that you guys have been reading, and she wants to say she’s glad that she inspired this post and this discussion❤

]]>https://nataliaantonova.com/2016/08/13/good-question-alert-can-you-be-a-serious-writer-while-also-just-being-yourself/feed/125the artist and model still by billy bitzerNataliaFor Natalia's stories